4. The House of Castor

I awoke in the early morning hours of what must have been the 16th of March. The travels of the previous days had been rather wearing. Luckily, the comfy bedding had provided some much-needed rest. I sat up on the edge of my bed and began sorting my thoughts, considering how to proceed with my journey. Two days of rest were planned for this beautiful town, which gave me some time to explore the old settlements and relish in the beautiful pre-Spring thaw of New Hampshire.

I slowly looked around my room, its aesthetic unfamiliar to me. The walls were wooden and so was the floor, built from ages old oak – a trademark of the generational House of Castor where I had taken up residence, a house spoken of with only the highest of regards by fellow travelers. However, much to my dismay, the interior had been lined with an elegant white carpet and long, white drapes. While I did not despise the color white as such, it made for a sanitary and clinical feel. Simply put, it did not feel particularly homely.

I stood up and walked towards the large window at the end of my room, brushing aside the heavy curtains, letting in the early rays of the sun. Through the window, I saw a massive, luscious apple tree towering above a small lake. Around the tree seemed to be a park of sorts. I assumed this was a part of the House of Castor’s well-known green space, of which many had told. There was indeed a calming beauty to the view, as the weak rays of the morning sun began to give the flora of the park a subtle shimmer, dew still covering the grass, bushes and the leaves of the trees. A weak shroud of fog enveloped the scene in a hazy veil, casting the vivid green colors into a slightly obscured milky frame. The scene hinted at the freshness of the impending Spring, while the fog kept it concealed with a faint of mystery, a reminder of the still lingering Winter. I was enamored with the view and decided to open the window to breathe in some of the calming morning air. To my surprise, however, when I tried to pull the window open, it wouldn’t budge. I tried opening it again and again, wriggling around the handle, but the window wouldn’t open. “Strange”, I thought to myself, but I decided to give it no further attention.

Feeling my stomach growling, I began to dress myself in proper attire, hoping the establishment would offer decent breakfast options or could perhaps recommend a fine bakery nearby. I couldn’t tell exactly what time it was - morning by the display of the dew outside - but my room was missing a clock so I could not pinpoint the exact hour. I did not stress about this, with four days still left to spend in the town, time was plentiful.

I stepped outside of my room into the hallway of the hotel. It mirrored the aesthetic of the room I had come from, white walls and carpeting creating an eerie feel that I did not enjoy too much. I shrugged it off as one of the new century aesthetic quirks. The hallway was largely empty, the only decoration, so to speak, being the many doors that led to the rooms of other residents. I began making my way down the hallway towards the reception, dust whirling around me, highlighted by the cold shine of the overhead lights. Just as I was halfway down the hall, I paused. I had heard something, the faint sound of frantic rambling coming from a barely opened door. It was faint but distinct, driven and clearly full of purpose. Someone was arguing, bargaining, faint but still audible. It seemed rather important, so I was intrigued. Usually, I am the last to intrude but something about the words I heard lured me in. With a tiny tinge of shame, I held my ear up to the door with the number 27, trying to gain an understanding of the random rambling. I concentrated, pinching my eyes slightly.

“It’s not possible!” the man inside the room said. By his voice he sounded senior, a man of status and education. His voice held a touch of expertise, something not consciously noticed by the usual passersby, but subconsciously felt by any listener. “It’s missing, there’s something missing” he continued in anger. “No, it’s complete, you checked it a hundred times, that’s it, there’s nothing else.” While the semantics made it sound as if this sentence had been spoken by another, it was indeed still the same man replying, leading a monologue addressed only to himself. “There HAS to be something missing!” the man yelled, seemingly getting frustrated. I could hear his steps on the wooden floor as he paced up and down his room. “I tried it, it didn’t work. It led nowhere. That means it must be incomplete. Maybe you’re just chasing ghosts. Even Tesla is on record saying that he didn’t have the time and means to understand the formular in his lifetime. You don’t understand. This could change everything. I… I know I’m just one step away. I can feel it! Some value, some variable… It has to be the frequency… The refraction, it wasn’t accurate. If we can get it right, if we can adjust it just barely!” Refraction? What formular? A secret of physics hidden just out of reach? I was fascinated by what I heard. I needed to know more about this mysterious man, about his formular and his chase. I turned my head, trying to get a peek through the barely opened door, trying to see the man. Between the door and frame, I spied something: writings, markers lying on the floor, a shadow of a small figure, a mirror reflecting a-

Thump. A large hand shut the door. I jumped and turned my head, as before me stood an employee of the hotel, large and with broad shoulders. He looked at me conspicuously; I felt my face turn red with shame. “Excuse me, sir!” he said, with a strict tone. “I assume you have lost your way?” “Oh, yes!” I replied quietly, embarrassed about my eavesdropping. “I wanted to find the reception” I continued. Not a lie per se. The employee looked at me doubtfully. “The reception? Down the hall and to the left.” His words were simple, but his demeanor was purposefully intimidating. Without saying anything, he made it clear that this was to be the last excursion of such impolite nature.

I gave an unconvincing smile, mustered a quick, squeaking “Thank you!” and made my way down the bleak corridor. At the end of it, I turned left, as the man had explained, into a large room with many tables, chairs and even a sofa and TV set. This room, too, echoed the design of the hallway, white and bleak, most of the furniture made of basic wood, some of it plastic. It was rich in fittings, but poor in character. And as such, the room was unoccupied. There were only two tall hotel employees standing on either side of the room, observing quietly. Residents, there was only one, a bald, middle-aged man sitting on the sofa, facing the wall with the TV set. He seemed fully occupied, watching the screen, a dance of white, black and grey lights. I couldn’t understand what it was depicting exactly, but I also didn’t care much. I had always felt that television had only dumbed down society instead of adding to it.

Suddenly, the bald man turned around, smiling slightly, and said “Come, friend, join me” with a weak Scottish accent. I was a bit surprised by his sudden interaction, as I had been unsure if he had even noticed my presence. Regardless, I still walked up to him, compelled by his openness. I politely introduced myself, shook his hand and sat down next to him. “That’s an interesting show” I stuttered. “Could you tell me what it is exactly?” The man looked at the screen, his demeanor changed, a blank stare ahead. “Madness. It’s madness” he said. Then he turned his head back towards me. “It’s all chaos. Entropy. The purest form of madness.” He leaned towards me. I tried hard to maintain an understanding and interested expression, but it began to slip into a look of worry. “I’m sorry?” I responded, shaking my head ever so slightly. “Madness. It’s all around us. In the air, in the ground. Even in the water. But have you ever asked yourself where madness comes from?” I slowly repositioned myself on the couch, shuffling away from the other guest. I began to feel uneasy next to him. “Madness has an origin. Like everything, it does.” He began to giggle, I rose up from the couch, my back to the wall. “But where is its home? Friend, if I were to ask you where the source of all madness lies, what would be your response? In money? In liquor, in women?” The man laughed, a deep bellowing laugh. “No, my friend, no, no. The source of all madness lies in Paris!” Suddenly, he stopped laughing, instead his expression turned serious. He wasn’t joking anymore. “Paris?” I said aghast, now having created quite a distance between the lunatic and myself. A shiver ran down my spine. “The wine, the cheese?” I joked, a slight smile on my lips, an attempt to lighten the tense mood. It was not received well. “No, my friend” the stranger said again, this time with a deeper, more serious voice. “No. It lies in Paris. Deep underground. It lies and waits. But not for long. Madness sleeps. But not for long! Somewhere A Knowing Ruler Unyieldingly Lies. But not for long! Remember the name! It lies and waits! But not for long!” He raised his voice more and more, almost yelling by the end of his ramble. His words stung like ice but burned through the room at the same time. I saw passion in his eyes, pure in form, and also horror, unfiltered and real. He meant what he said with all his heart, but I could not understand it. What name? Why Paris? I stumbled backwards, away from the stranger. Something was wrong. I couldn’t stay.

“I believe I must go” I stammered, swiftly approaching the doorway that led to the reception. I felt dizzy. I needed some fresh air. I stumbled forward, guiding myself along the wall. I tried to open a window, but I couldn’t. Why did none of these windows open? Finally, I reached the reception. I collapsed onto a chair, weak, worn. I tilted my head upwards, staring at the fluorescent light. There was no warmth; its white glow emanating only a sickening purity, an absence of comfort, a bare, naked radiance. It seemed to pierce through my brain. I breathed heavily, my stomach churning.

I took several deep breaths, trying to collect myself, trying to regain my calm. Before, I had rarely suffered from panic attacks like this, but I felt my stay in this hotel had taken a toll on me. I felt unwell in these walls… I took another deep breath, then another, and looked back down, at the reception and the employees working it. They were wearing elegant gowns, white, bleak and clean. Behind them hung a calendar on the wall; the last day of the month was marked, a red marker circle surrounding the number on display: 27. I stared at it. The red of the marker was still wet, it had been circled recently. Just then, a man came up to the counter for check-in. A new guest, young, barely in his mid-twenties, shifting around, twitching, obviously nervous. He began to yell, loud, obnoxious, screaming at the receptionist. I got up from the chair, holding my stomach, angry and annoyed. The man was shaking, shifting from foot to foot, screaming loudly. I went up to him and placed my hand on his right shoulder. “Hey, are you okay, sir?” I asked. He turned around, his face was pale, boasting a horrified look. “Don’t touch me!” he yelled. “I didn’t take it! You have to believe me; I DIDN’T TAKE IT!” He screamed directly in my face, drops of his spit plunging onto my eyelids, a wave of disgust washed over me. I pushed him away. “What the hell?” I yelled. My stomach began to revolt, pushed over the edge by the disgusting slimy texture of the droplets, furthered by the assailant’s bad breath. I wiped my face, then brushed off my hands in my coat. I was about to throw up. I bent over, held my hand over my mouth and hastily stumbled towards the large front door. With my free hand, I pushed it open, vomiting directly onto the steps of the hotel, an ugly display. Finally, I took a deep breath of the cold night air. And another. And another. The air filled my lungs, cold, slowly pushing aside the nausea and taste of bile. I was shivering, my thin gown offering little protection from the cool air. Suddenly, out of nowhere, sirens started ringing. I was confused. I looked up. A group of employees was running towards me, yelling, screaming, holding various objects. I tried to move but I was weak. I heard someone screaming, yelling out my name. “Mr. Castor!” he yelled. Then I felt something in my arm, an object – sharp – penetrating my skin, I was surrounded, so hectic, so many voices, something inside me, slurring through my veins, cold. The world around me darkened, the voices grew faint. So much yelling, the sirens still ringing. The world turned black.

I awoke in the early morning hours of what must have been the 16th of March. The travels of the previous days had been rather wearing. Luckily, the comfy bedding had provided some much-needed rest. I sat up on the edge of my bed and began sorting my thoughts, considering how to proceed with my journey. Two days of rest were planned for this beautiful town, which gave me some time to explore the old settlements and relish in the beautiful pre-Spring thaw of New Hampshire.

I stood up and walked towards the large window at the end of my room. I felt a bit sick, so I decided to open the window and let in some fresh morning air. To my surprise, however, when I tried to pull the window open, it wouldn’t budge. I tried opening it again and again, wriggling around the handle, pulling as hard as I could, but the window simply wouldn’t open. “Strange”, I thought to myself.